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PHILIP HAMMIAL
-
Montmartre
-
- Skaters adjusted for a classic combo is
not
- my idea of fun. More to my liking would
be
- a simple life to trade as art, a soup so
subtly spiced
- that both Jubal the harpist & Jabal
the cattle herder
-
- would relish it, asking for more as it
ripples
- like a just-evacuated bath, some plump
artist’s model
- waiting for you to hand her a towel. How
long
- can she hold that pose? Until the
shoot-out
-
- in the Pere Lachaise is over, those
Communards left
- for the crows, what they deserved? Just
another dab
- & it’s finished. Time for a
cuddle before the pumpkin
-
- coach arrives? Why not? And in any case
her pretty foot
- is just a tad too big for the slipper;
her toes in my mouth,
- now that’s my idea of fun.
Hit
Parade
- Fairy lights on the cover of my latest,
what
- could I have been thinking of?– that
- forty-seven poems about a wrestling match
- in foul weather would bring about
-
- a fundamental change
- in my star status – from number
forty-seven
- in the East Anglican hit parade to number
one
- in one lifetime; how absurd, this poem
-
- a perfect example of my perennial
inability
- to articulate some universal truth, a sad
fact
- that’s guaranteed to keep me in the
ranks
-
- of the also ran until the day I die or
decide
- to find some sensible occupation that
might take me
- to the top; wrestling, with one throw,
why not?
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